


All Your Poison

by Gabri



Category: Marvel (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Frottage, M/M, Pheromones, Sex Pollen, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabri/pseuds/Gabri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he gets home, he changes his clothes twice before perching at his desk chair, propping up the bottled spider where he can see it, and typing "pheromones" into a search engine. For the Spiderkink meme on LJ - Peter Parker bitten by a female spider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Your Poison

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Spiderman kinkmeme, spiderkink on LJ, for the prompt "The spider that bit Peter was female, now he has the urge to "mate". He starts releasing pheromones and can't get the desire for sex out of his head...." The full, original prompt and post can be found [here](http://spiderkink.livejournal.com/1612.html?thread=7244#t7244). I had a lot of fun writing this and I'm very grateful for all your kind comments as it was in progress. :) :)
> 
> Other notes - there's thoughts of MPreg, but no actual MPreg, which is why I did not tag/warn for it. I've marked this M/M and M/F for Gwen, but it's largely M/M, and explicit sex is M/M as well. For those hunting tags for a particular pairing, the dominant couple in this is Curt/Peter.

Peter Parker can talk himself out of a panic relatively well. He's young, and there's a certain territory that comes with that - stammering in front of anyone attractive, the sudden heat in his face, contact, _puberty things_ that can range from mildly annoying to cosmically embarrassing. It comes with being a living thing - it's typical, it's expected. Scientifically this all makes sense to him. He narrows it down to a matter of surviving said embarrassing instances rather than hoping that one day he'll wake up and find himself magically experienced and suave.

It's only recently that he feels a ghost sensation, a different kind of flush under his skin, not quite fever-heat but something sensitive and strange and insistent. 

His fingers and toes feel especially sensitive. He climbs on the ceiling for this little experiment, finding a comfortable spot in the corner of his room (because for some reason being up _high_ feels mandatory, even if 'high' has to equal only a few feet off the ground, tops.) It feels weird to touching himself in this funny state ('heat state' he calls it in his head.) It almost feels dangerous, like he's working with something unstable at a lab instead of considering a masturbation session in his bedroom with the door bolted shut.

Peter slides the pads of his fingers hesitantly against the lines that dip in from his hips, slipping beneath his boxers, flush against the skin of his inner thigh, and it sends a jolt of something hot through his body, sudden and sharp enough to make him physically twitch. Masturbation never felt like that before. This feels sharp, demanding, like an ache or a sickness. The word _'mating'_ swims through his brain and his lips part hungrily before he even realizes what he's doing.

Then he jerks his hand back. Stares at the pink lines of his fingers. "Okay." Peter says to himself in a throaty whisper. "No big deal. It's normal."

But it's not, is it?

\----

He decides that mostly, he can ignore it pretty well. There's seems to be a certain level of urgency to it - the passing of time may be a factor, as one day he feels like his normal self watching the side of Gwen's face in class and the next that heat is crawling up in his face and he toes are curling in his shoes and that word ( _mate mate mate mate_ ) is climbing decibels.

He's thinking about being pinned down, maybe her fingers would find his upper arms, curling tight. Hold him in place. Would she be strong enough to keep him there? Peter thinks of his obliterated alarm clock at home and wants to groan - okay, maybe not - but okay, she can tie him down, just get on top of him. The words ' _take me_ ' come to mind, and he presses the back of his wrist against his mouth, unsure if he's covering it or just trying to feel some sort of contact sensation. Gwen turns her head a little and Peter actually squeaks before ducking down to avoid her eyes.

He has time to wonder if his face is going to resemble a tomato _permanently_ before by the grace of God, the bell rings and Peter's up and out, fleeing before Gwen can get the chance to speak to him.

He stops in the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face before the next period, trying to think about the most boring and thoroughly un-sexy things he can while sticking his palms to the sink in order to discourage himself from letting his hands wander. 

\-----

He's huddled in his layers, and spider-sense hasn't even given him a nudge. It's all very fast: Flash calling his name, fast-twitch muscles kicking in at the weight on his shoulder, and then-

Then there's a body just a few inches from his, and a face, and Peter's senses all narrow and fix on it, the breath in his lungs, taunt muscle, whispered voice.

 _I don't want to think about this now_ rushes through Peter's head like a blur. He can feel his stomach drop, a cold, displaced feeling inching up his chest like long, uncurling fingers. _I *really* don't need this right now._

His hands are fisted in Flash's undershirt, the pale jacket riding up, he's up against the locker and he's thrown for a loop. Peter's eyes are fixed on his, but Flash's parted mouth is caught in his peripheral. His lower lip, the bare curve, a dull pink, _male._

 _Male?_ Peter thinks again, in disbelief. The word snags into his head like a pick catching a guitar string, it thrums there in aftershock beating inside his skull. It's just about the stupidest thing he could possibly think while _pinning the school bully against his locker_ in a fit of anger, but it clicks in ways that watching Gwen in class haven't clicked before, and he wants to lean in and trap it, trap the thought, the idea, pull it close with a thread of spider silk. 

Trap _him._

Flash says something - it looks like a breathy mouthing to him, just distant noise - and Peter can feel the heat climbing in his cheeks, and _oh god, no, NO, Peter Parker this *really* does not need to be added to your list of complications._

His fingers uncurl and Flash's feet thud back against the floor. Peter only gets a glimpse of him before he shoulders off as fast as he can without actually raising his head to watch where he steps, but was it his imagination or did Flash look kind of....drunk? Coasting? _Stunned_ , Peter decided, _he's just surprised._

The sides of his palms felt hot, where Flash's tee had been the only thing between skin and skin.

\----

When Peter puts on his mask, he leaves everything behind. 

It wasn't an intended decision - he's still the same boy after all, his heart beats the same in his head, his thoughts race the same way. But his reflection in New York's vast windows is different, his feet swinging up in sight look foreign against the grainy sky, and nobody looks at Spider-Man and sees Peter Parker. He _becomes_ Spider-Man, the idea, the colors. He _answers_ to it. 

So maybe that's why he's so surprised that he's feeling that heat in his costume, too.

Maybe he thought it would respect the job, keep it's bay, let the serious matters come first. Peter is tucked inside a shadow far off the ground, his back against cool brick, and below him is a thug he's been tracking for less than a minute. The man's got his sack of goods (small money and convenience store food) over his shoulder, worn boots and a stubble-darkened jaw that looks unused to smiling. Peter thinks he looks like something out of a comic book.

"Hit a dead end?" He teases, calling out into the ally. The man turns and Peter pins one hand - the one holding the sack - to the opposite wall with a flash of webbing. He lands on the ground in a crouch, giving the man his time to curse or gape or apologize (interestingly enough, nobody ever seems to choose that option), but when he stands the man is doing neither - his head is down a little, and his knees are buckled, and Peter feels an unexpected jolt at the way the thief is eyeing him. 

"I'll be taking that, thank you." Peter says, webbing the sack closed and yanking it toward him roughly. The man twitches sharply, his fingers opening and closing in jerky motions, and suddenly he's worried. Who did he corner? Is he on drugs? _He's okay enough to rob a chump store_ , Peter thinks, but he steps forward and tries to look into the man's face, holding up his hands slightly in a gesture to calm down.

"Hey, hey, clearly you're thrilled and I appreciate that-" he starts, but then he feels the fingers on the side of his face, and spider-sense seems to kick in as an afterthought. But the man isn't trying to take his mask off. He's yanking up the bottom - just the bottom - and those thick fingers curl over the nape of his neck and yank him forward and suddenly Peter finds himself being kissed. In an ally. By a thief. _By a thief that he just caught._

Before he can think to get away ( _dangerous man, free hand, could take mask-_ ) a sudden surge of heat washes over his body, and it's enough to make his legs turn to jelly. The world is a blur and the only thing that's clear is a warm tongue trying to thrust itself further past his teeth and a hand sliding down his back, pushing him flush against the other man, fingers hooking hard into his hip. 

Peter's getting dizzy ( _male male male_ ) and the man growls into his lips ( _mate mate mate_ ) and rubs a knee between his legs, and yes, that's what he needs, he needs to _mate_ and he needs to be _filled_ , and he's climbing this stranger like a tree, wrapping his legs around the man's middle, arms curled around his shoulders. The thief moans loudly and Peter feels something hard pressed against his thigh. His brain seems to have decided to shut itself off, and so he's still trying to figure out how to maneuver that hardness against him properly when his phone goes off.

Spider-Man topples off his prey and lands hard, half on his side, an ugly spike of pain threading through the desperate pleasure. The ringtone blares between them and he considers laughing (perfect timing, Aunt May) before the reality of what he was trying to do hits him full swing and suddenly he's....reeling.

"Fuck." the thief moans out, straining against his web-snared wrist. His voice is low and throaty, thick with need, with lust, and his worn boots are sliding against the ground as if he's forgotten how to stand. " _Fuck_ , com'ere-"

Peter jumps to his feet, wobbles there for a second, and then gets a better look at the guy. He looks drugged alright - Peter is reminded of a more severe version of Flash the day before - his pupils are blown, mouth open, body straining and flushed. There's an obvious bulge between his legs, and Peter feels his cheeks get hot at the implications. His own body is still aching with the thrum of lust, but now there's a vague sort of horror in the sight - the man has to be twice his age, he's a criminal, he's a stranger, and yeah, that bulge? Peter can't exactly forget that _that's_ what he was trying to rut against a few seconds ago. 

He has time to think _I am in so much trouble_ before the ringtone cuts short and clicks to voicemail. He webs the other man's hand (he's being loud, the police will find him for sure) before taking off up the brick wall again, determined to go somewhere high and ride out this urge.

But the worst part is, Peter's still thinking about the twitching muscle, the man's flushed collar, the feel of a tongue roughly mapping out the space behind his teeth. And as much as he wants to just curl up and _die_ about all of this, there's still a very loud, very eager part of him that wants to turn around and go back.

\----

That man's drugged face won't stop nagging at the back of his head.

It would be fine if Peter thought maybe he was _actually drugged_. But he's thinking about Flash's face, too. And he's thinking about spiders....

 _His_ spider, specifically.

When he gets home, he changes his clothes twice before perching at his desk chair, propping up the bottled spider where he can see it, and typing "pheromones" into a search engine. 

\------

The wonderful thing about Gwen Stacy is her open mind. 

Peter's sitting with her high up in the bleachers, his hood yanked up and flattening his brown hair over his forehead. The bottled spider is in her hand and she's squinting at it with those beautiful green-gold eyes of hers, lips slightly parted and brow furrowed, transfixed.

Peter could watch her like that forever, possessed with questions, eager and ready to drink up the secrets of the universe. Last night's scare seems to have dulled his heat a little (how many times has his heart skipped painfully in his chest passing a television, because he kept expecting to see a snippet of himself wrapped around a thug in a back-ally? _Please God_ , Peter thinks, because he would gladly take a thousand warrants for arrest over a single shot of that particular encounter.) Gwen's head is shaking slowly, her attention flickering briefly towards him. Finally, she whispers, "You really think it's female?"

"It's possible - but it seems more and more likely now -" Peter mumbles, voice teetering into a nervous laugh.

"But why now?" she prompts, twisting her fingers so the bottle rotates between them. "How does that affect you?"

"Uh - " Peter looks at her pretty face, her curtain of blonde hair. The obvious way she's not reduced to a cursing, straining, sex-crazed animal by his close presence. "It doesn't." he lies.

"I can't confirm it for you," Gwen says doubtfully, "Standard method of determining gender won't be so reliable when you're dealing with a altered subject-"

Peter nods stiffly.

"-not to mention technically it shouldn't be in your hands to start with, and - oh." When she tips her head towards him again, his mouth is inches away. Her slender hand slides up his shoulder and tightens there, holding him at a better distance. Peter focuses on her face and sees narrowed eyes and a crinkled nose.

"Are you wearing cologne?" she laughs uncertainly. Peter shakes his head briefly as her insistent voice presses on. "I could swear something about you is - off."

"It's - uh - pheromones." Peter blurts out, and Gwen stares at him blankly for a second before her eyes grow wider and wider, and Peter feels his face grow hotter and hotter, and he's trying to think of all the ways he could insist it was a joke but it's already too late, he can tell by the catch in her breath. 

"Oh." she whispers. It's the tone she'd use to comfort a kid whose just gotten his face ground into the dirt by Flash. Her fingers are inching up past her chin to hide her open mouth, but it's a losing battle. "Oh, _Peter_." 

\-----

There's a relatively easy way to test his hypothesis - walking back from class causes little to no reaction in female students, and a rather twitchy, attention-seizing reaction from the male ones. He keeps moving and encounters nothing overly worrying (voices sliding lower, one boy actually whistled under his breath, and yeah, Peter could have gone without that little dose of public embarrassment) but Gwen's gentle rejection makes his stomach knot unpleasantly. This is easily the most unfair 'side effect' of the bite.

Peter continues his research in a haze, important papers tacked up where he can see them - the wanted ad, a photo of his father, a front page article depicting a artist's rendition of a reptile claw - and despite his sincere, obsessive interest in information concerning the Lizard, he finds his palms wandering about his body, dipping and rubbing, the fingers of his right hand slipping into his mouth so he can suck on them while he reads.

He actually bites down on his knuckle when Aunt May calls up that she's prepared dinner. It's hard enough to bruise, and the aftershocks of pain-threaded-pleasure echo curiously for a while afterward.

\-----

Peter learns to appreciate his web-shooters in a whole new way, because their range is _beautiful._

He can soar about safe territory, watch the city breathe from the rooftops, and most importantly, snare criminals without getting too close to them...or ending up writhing on their laps again.

But the Lizard is a whole new animal, and Peter can't afford to hide forever when there's still valuable places to narrow down his search. So he gives Doctor Connors what he hopes is a nice, safe distance between them before he starts asking questions.

"Why the sudden interest in the cold-blooded?" Connors' voice is sharp, and suddenly it's glaringly obvious how sleepless this man looks, trapped and bristling and drained of his usual aura of avid fascination. 

"Just - school project-" Peter stammers, and Connors steps forward ("aggressive if threatened" he whispers) and Peter feels something dangerously close to excitement jump into his veins and burn through his body like a sickness.

There's a patch of scaled skin creeping around the side of the doctor's neck, and Peter's never felt so horrified as the truth closes in on him, suffocating him. He's backing up, giving Connors - giving the _Lizard_ \- his space. His heart is beating hard in his chest, and despite the battle-ready hunch to his posture ( _danger, enemy, danger_ ) something in him is eagerly whispering _compatible, compatible..._

 _*Please* shut up, Miss Spider,_ Peter thinks, _this really isn't the time._ Doctor Connors, his father's partner, is the Lizard, and all he can conclude from that is 'compatible?'. It would be funny if it wasn't so disturbing. 

"You really should be going," Connors is saying as Peter edges back through the door, eyes still glued to him, and Peter's really, really hoping he's imagining that hungry look in his eyes. Maybe if he's very, very lucky, it will be the kind of hunger where the Lizard wants to gobble him up for lunch, and not the kind of hunger where...well, you know, Peter thinks. He doesn't want to think about it. By the time he's back at home, hastily planning his next move with this new information, his whole body is afire and he can't stop thinking of skin and friction and _mating_ , but he won't let himself dwell on it. He won't even let himself touch. The city is in danger, people could die, and he's Spider-Man, he can reign this thing in.

\------

His only choice is to hunt.

He's changed a lot since the spider bite. Some ways are more obvious than others, but new details still like to jump out and surprise him. The tiny movements of a wind-touched room, shifting and crackling that becomes suddenly loud and attention-worthy. The precise detail of passing insects, pin-sharp. The odd, comfortable joy of being high off the ground, suspended and hanging and completely at home.

Spider-Man lowers himself into the sewers and starts to build himself a web with the rapid, broad motions of artist laying framework. The task itself is surprisingly easy, second-nature, and it seems like the most natural thing in he world to be preening the individual threads in shadowed silence. Calm. Steady. Every vibrating thrum of movement slides down the engineered lines, up through his palms and quivers somewhere in his center, like a heartbeat. 

His own heart is thudding in his ears as he waits for his prey. 

It doesn't take long for his prey to find _him._

If Peter's going to have one definite least favorite thing about the Lizard, it's going to be that tail of his. He's a smart kid, and he could easily rattle off a list of evolutionary purposes for reptilian tails if you asked him. But last time he checked, _strangling teenagers_ wasn't really up there with the top ten. 

He can feel the blood building in his face. His head is swimming. Black spots pop up in his vision like curious little UFOs. His chest is on fire, a sharp, unrelenting pain that spikes from his lungs and all through his trembling frame. The Lizard's tail is solid muscle, coiling tight around his throat, and he's panicking, he's falling. The web caves in slowly under the strain of their combined weight, but Peter doesn't know if he can stay conscious long enough to use that to his advantage.

There's helpless, gagging sounds coming from him. Peter couldn't stop them if he tried. The Lizard is saying something in a garbled voice. Three fingers stretch out and hover centimeters from his chest. They slice through the spandex like tissue paper, shallow, relishing the promise of pain. 

_Am I really going to die?_ Peter wonders from far-away.

Soon he can see nothing but blackness.

\-------

Peter knows something is wrong before he can even wake fully - the holy mother of all headaches is throbbing inside his skull, and his body, especially his neck, feels like one giant bruise. He groans loudly, the sound of it weak and strained (oh _right_ \- those darn lizard tails) before his eyes flutter open. There's computer screens nearby, a chair and beakers. The ground is damp. There's something laying on top of a leather-bound book. Small, white. It might be a syringe, or maybe a vial. Spider-sense is a low, expectant hum. Peter closes his eyes again, moaning softly, trying to prop his hands up under him and sit.

"You are reckless when you hunt," a voice whispers, and Peter nearly falls over. He's scrambling up into a better position (oh god that _headache!_ ) when his spider-sense surges forward and suddenly he can hear that Connors is _right there_ , a heavy-breathing, warm body in front of him. "Unless you _wanted_ to be caught."

Already there's a heat creeping into his frame like ivy. _Bad Spidey_ , he thinks, _very bad_. It doesn't help that the tone is low. Teasing. _Male_ , his head practically purrs, as if he really needed that reminder.

Peter opens his eyes just wide enough for a glimpse, and what he sees sends his heart leaping up into his throat. It _looks_ like Connors - the man, or what's left of him - but somehow it's _not_ him. The eyes are lost and crazed, infected. His skin is clammy and pale. There are spots of reptile scales dotting him - behind his ears, his collar, his temples, randomly touching whatever skin isn't covered by the tattered, barely-there remains of a white lab coat. His hair is matted and laying in strings.

" _Wait_ ," Peter gasps out. He doesn't know what he means by that. Wait for what? He's technically not the Lizard, not yet. He hasn't tried to hurt Peter since he's woken. Even spider-sense is being (mostly) tame. Connors is licking his lips, and as consciousness makes it's complete return, his sees the man's eyes get wider, brighter.

Sometimes, when the scientist meets a challenging equation, he gets this look - that air of interest and excitement. It's the look he's giving Peter now, only his pupils are dilated and his chest is rising and falling steadily, pumping healthy color into his cheeks again. Peter moans softly and Connors makes a twitchy kind of motion, leaning slightly closer. His eyes flicker about Peter's body, the torn costume, glimpses of skin, and swivel back to his face when Peter starts rubbing at his bruised neck. 

He looks hungry. ' _That_ ' kind of hungry.

Peter just stares at him, wide-eyed, and Connors wavers like the pheromones have suddenly clicked into the right places. He makes a low, rumbling sound, eyes flickering around as if expecting to see some sort of chemical fog tangible about them.

" _Fascinating._ " he breathes.

A trembling hand reaches forward, and Peter does his best not to strain toward him. His body is climbing in temperature. He aches from the battle only minutes before. Before the Lizard decided not to kill him. 

Before he brought him here instead. 

Peter uses his hands to brace himself, crouching down so his knees touch the hard floor, coiled like a spring. His body is singing in anticipation, burning, his brain fogging over, fascinated by the closeness of muscle and breath. The ebbing pain, the panic, the building pulse of sudden sensitivity from his willingness for a mate - and suddenly all he knows is the hand sliding up his jaw, tilting his head back, the sharp nip of teeth and the coasting high of that powerful grip. Strong enough to break bones, if he squeezed. _Compatible_ , his head whispers hungrily, _dominant, worthy._ He fumbles for a grip on the man, fingers sliding, messy and eager. Connors pants hard into his ear.

" _Some_ spiders devour their mates." he says between breaths. His voice is a growl, low with lust. Peter thinks he might hear the dual-tones in it, from the Lizard side of him. "Which sort of spider are _you_ , Peter Parker?"

"If - if you don't take me now, I might die -" Peter babbles in a rush. He's so drunk on the musk of arousal and adrenaline, so suddenly and urgently possessed by the urge to breed that he doesn't even think about what he says. He's all but melting in his hands, trying to fit against him, rub against him right. He wants to mate so badly that he's ready to cry, fingers trying to map out the larger, shaking body, too far gone to think about who this is in relation to the rest of the universe, to _him_. His voice climbs in pitch, needy. "Please, please, _please._ "

Connors makes a noise like he's in pain and arches against him, urging Peter over him until he's practically straddling the other man. Peter gasps at the hardness, the naked contact. The fingers of Connors' good arm press into his lower back and slide across, claws already forming just enough for the points to dig in. Spandex tears beneath them easily. Peter hisses in pleasure-pain when they scrape skin.

He's yanking what's left of the lab coat back (just tatters, dirty and destroyed), and Connors is biting at his neck, shoulders hunched, those noises of desperate maybe-pain and excitement escaping him. Pheromones are thick in the air. Peter doesn't think he's ever been this hard in his life.

"You're - _warm_ -" Connors gasps like this is the most surprising thing, slipping sharp fingers up under his legs. Peter's never done this before. He doesn't know how to start. Connors is yanking him into position unto his naked lap, where Peter's smaller frame fits easily, trapping his hardness between their bodies. He can feel Connors' length thrust between his thighs, like maybe he doesn't know how to start either. Or maybe he's just teasing.

Only Peter can't wait any longer.

"Get inside me," he whispers, pleading, demanding, grasping around himself to try to guide Connors in. "Get _inside_ me, _please_ \--" Some distant instinct chants _pregnant, pregnant_ , and he's just barely sane enough to think _'that's not - you're kidding me, right?'_ before Connors is slipping two fingers into his mouth. Peter sucks on them eagerly, lewdly, tasting salt and rough skin until they're replaced with cool lips and a cool tongue. Keeping his eyes open isn't an option anymore, coasting on sensation and instinct. He gasps and hisses when fingers slide into him hastily, stretching and prying. Connors swallows every noise.

Peter all but screams when the swollen head of a cock presses inside him. Some pain, but it's distant and unimportant. Mostly pleasure. _Consuming_ pleasure. It feels like a missing piece clicking into place, like being _full_ , and forced open and _owned_. He's seeing stars, fingers curling tight around his mate's shoulders, barely enough restraint in him to hold back on spider strength. It's barely begun and he's trying to force himself the rest of the way down, keening, but a sharp pain in his side alerts him to Connors, digging his nails in, trying to slow him up.

"Steady," The scientist is breathing, that sickly, Lizard edge to his eyes, and his body trembles and pulses. Peter can feel the beat of it, hot and hard inside him. He tries to obey, impaling himself slowly on the thickness, still groaning and panting, until his mate is buried to the hilt and Peter is spread around him shamelessly, his spread thighs trembling, Spider-Man's costume hanging off him in shredded pieces like a fallen banner.

" _Oh_ ," he pants, " _oh_." He wants to say something smart, something coherent, but it's difficult when he's so _full_ , trying to start a rhythm, bracing his palms against Connors' heaving chest. It feels like he was born to do this, an instinct that goes back a million years, the slide of coiling heat in his belly, sounds of flesh on flesh, Connors hands working hastily between his legs.

Peter's riding him hard, uncaring of the sounds the come out of him. He might actually lose his mind like this, fucking himself on this man's wet cock, toes curling when he bottoms out deep inside him, hitting some secret spot Peter hadn't even known _existed_ , and his mind is blank except for _mate, male, more, more_ , and Connors is pulling him closer, changing the angle until his dick slides almost completely out of him. He doesn't know how long he's been doing this anymore, but he knows he doesn't want to stop yet. "Finish me," Peter pleads against his mouth in a desperate whisper, "Knock me up, take me -"

" _Patience_ ," his mate growls, and suddenly he's on his hands and knees. His mate is a looming weight settling up above him, slick skin on his back, shoving his thighs apart. Peter groans. Who is he kidding? He's Spider-man, he's most comfortable on all fours. Connors nudges inside him again, burying himself into Peter with one hard thrust, and the change in angle sends a thrill through him. His arms are in danger of buckling, so he braces one elbow against the gritty floor and pushes his ass back against his partner. His mate is the one doing all the work now, desperate and deliciously rough. His fingers dig into his hips. Peter can feel a wet tongue trailing up his back, licking a stripe across the vertebrae of his spine, and that's all it takes to undo him completely.

Seconds later, he feels Connors' cock swell inside him, and the hands on his hips tighten so hard that Peter swears he can feel the bones creak in protest.

Then Connors is hissing, pulling out of him. Peter feels a wetness trickle down the inside of his thigh. He feels a sense of acute emptiness where his mate used to be, but the exhaustion that settles over him now is far too great to ignore. He fumbles to keep himself from smacking into the ground once Connors' rough hands are no longer there to support him. A second later, he's being yanked against a cool, panting chest.

Peter lays there for a long time, tucked against Connors heart. It's a last-minute concept of cuddling, and honestly, he's senses are still making that long trip back home, so he can't find it in himself to argue. Every little bit of him is aching fiercely, a strange mix of feeling drained and completely sated. His lower back has a constant, dull throb to it. Peter feels hard roses of color burn on his cheeks, trying not to think too hard about this as his strength returns.

" _Parker._ " Connors whispers tiredly, and Peter tries to pull away on instinct, but Connors has him with his good arm, and it doesn't want to budge. He's suddenly, intensely aware of the fact that there's come still leaking out of him, and as utterly satisfied as the rest of his body seems to be with this fact, the little bit of Peter Parker sanity that's still wandering around somewhere in his head is ready to melt into the ground, mortified. Or at _least_ wish that he had brought a spare costume to change into. Or, god. _Something._

He tries to tug out from under that heavy arm again, but his mate - _Dr. Connors_ , Peter tries to correct himself - tightens his grip again. Peter squeaks. Connors makes a low, dazed kind of sound and goes back to being still.

"Hey, that's okay." Peter whispers. He's staring at the ceiling, blinking his eyes rapidly. Part of him is starting to want to look down at himself, get an idea of just how much dignity he can scrape up from this, but somehow even that seems to require too much energy. "We can stay here. I'll move my books in, grab an extra chair, maybe some scale models. I always wanted a roomie."

Connors groans again.

"I know." Peter sympathizes quietly. "Pheromones, right? Those things don't play fair." He tries to slide a hand over his belly, trying to pull some of that tatters over to retain some sense of...what's that thing called again? Modesty? Part of him really does want to stay for some of that post-mating bliss, but part of him is still very aware that yes, this is the Lizards lair, and yes, very soon Dr. Connors may just decide he's had enough of this humanity deal and turn back into a giant, homicidal lizard.

He starts to pluck the fingers from his waist. This time, Connors lets him.

Peter manages to get his feet up under him and has only just started webbing his costume back into some semblance of unity when a hand threads behind his hair and pulls him down again.

And then his mouth is pressed to Dr. Connors', and his lips are cold and drained, and Peter feels a shock go through him that has nothing to do with heat and everything to do with the fact that what they just did was real, and _permanent_ , and no matter how this lizard thing ended, maybe what they just did was never really going to be ignored. He doesn't know what to do, what to say, until Connors eases up on him a little, staring at him like he's the most fascinating thing on the face of the planet. 

Peter whispers, "Sorry." And then, just because he doesn't want all of this to be some sort of horrible mistake, something they can tear themselves apart for later, he adds, "Thanks for that, by the way...I mean. Since we're here and everything."

Then he adjusts his web-shooters tight, musters up every last scrap of his energy, and gets the heck out of there.

\-----

-Epilogue-

Apparently, Peter thinks, Miss Spider thinks she's done a good job, because the pheromone problem seems to be laying low. 

He couldn't be happier about that - not only because he doesn't have to dodge the general population like he's the New York's most wanted _outside_ of the Spider-Man costume, but because now with the cowl on and his web-shooters attached, he doesn't have to be so cautious about fighting up close and personal, should the need arise.

Not that the discovery hasn't changed him somewhat.

Because what if it comes back? _No one ever said it's gone_ , Peter muses, and mostly he's thinking of Gwen's crinkled nose and pushing hands. Pheromones don't agree with her. _Well, isn't that my Parker luck._

Then there's Curt Connors, who seems a little more pre-occupied with being a crazy Lizard than hunting down Peter for another round, leaving that nagging thought to sit on the back-burner as well.

So for now, that just leaves the disturbing little detail of what he said during that night with Connors -

"Peter?" Gwen says, peeping her head back into her room. The dim light of the hallway makes her face glow a pretty gold. "Have you been...uh...looking around in the bathroom at all?" Her lips purse, a jerky little shrug to her shoulders. Playing innocent.

"Um."

"Because there's a pregnancy test that looks like it's been - " she mouths out ' _webbed_ ' - "from the shelf, and maybe I'm going a little crazy here, but?"

"What? No." Peter says. Laughs. She tip-toes back into the room and raises her eyebrows at him. "Why would I want a--? I haven't - no."

"Well, if there's something you want to tell me - "

Peter shakes his head, blinking up at her innocently. There's an amused quirk to her mouth, and all he wants is to kiss it off.

"You're an odd one, bug boy." she sighs, brushing his hair back from his forehead, and Peter leans back, letting her hover over him so he can fit in her shadow.

Because if there's one thing that seems to still be lingering from all of this, it's the fact that something in him seems very, very satisfied with a submissive role. Maybe it's the fact that being Spider-Man, the burden of a heavy responsibility, likes to bear on him. Or maybe it's just the aftereffects ghosting over him still, assuming they really have retreated for the time. 

"Don't move." Gwen says possessively, smiling at the way he looks up at her. "I got you."

Or maybe it just comes with the territory.


End file.
